untouched scotch
by RookieGinge
Summary: Andy/Sam oneshot. Rated T. / "You learn from it and move on." "Well, tonight, I learned that I make a terrible hooker; and a terrible cop."


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Rookie Blue; but it's too amazing not to write about.

Rated T to be safe, because it probably is. Contains inverted references to alcoholism, and possibly some mild swearing.

**A/N:** If the length wasn't an indication, this is not a drabble.

It's an Andy/Sam oneshot; though leaning more towards friendship in some ways as opposed to romance.

It's set after episode 4, 'Signals Crossed'. Contains spoilers for episode 3, 'Fite Nite'

Hope you enjoy!

-0-0-

She stares down at the glass in her hands.

She thinks about it; thinks about throwing the Scotch down her throat, probably followed by some more. It would burn on the way down. She'd probably grimace. But then she might think: hell, what's one more? She might keep drinking. Might like the numbing affect it would have on her a little too much. She wants to forget, right? So what would be stopping her from having one more … and another … and forgetting?

She swallows hard, thinking about her father – collapsed on the floor of his apartment, under the coffee table, glass shattering and crunching under her feet from the window she'd broken to gain entrance when she'd seen him through the window – as she none-too-gently pushes the glass away.

She wants to forget …

But she never wants to end up like him.

"Did the Scotch offend you, McNally?" a rough voice from behind her asks.

"Not the Scotch," she mutters in reply as Sam Swarek slides onto the stool to her left. He waits, as though waiting for further explanation. She doesn't give any. He observes her out of the corner of his eye as he orders a beer from the bartender. He takes in the tough set of her features and the slump of her shoulders. Her elbows rest on the counter, her gaze locked on the still-full glass of Scotch.

"You okay?" he asks, quietly at first … then again, louder, when she doesn't respond.

"Hmm?" she mumbles questioningly, tearing her gaze away from the tumbler to look at him. His eyes widen marginally at the pain he can see in her eyes before he schools his expression. She may be a rookie, but she's not half bad at reading people; he doesn't want her seeing his shock and get defensive. More defensive than she already is, anyways.

"I said: are you okay?" he repeats for a third time, his thoughts going back to her badly hidden pain. He's sure that the failed undercover Op helped bum her out, as well as the scene at the warehouse, but he's fairly certain that it isn't the whole story.

She shrugs a little, looking back to the untouched liquor in front of her.

"Hey," he says, gently. The gentleness in itself is enough to make her look back up at him. When he has her attention, he continues, "Ops go bad; it happens. It was your first, and honestly . . . I think a lot of the older cops at the 15th are surprised that it went as well as it did. Maybe you made a mistake, maybe it was rotten luck. Either way, you learn from it and move on."

"Well," she says, sighing, averting her gaze, "tonight, I learned that I make a terrible hooker; _and_ a terrible cop."

"You can't let one bum night affect your view of your abilities," he starts, but she cuts him off.

"I made a rookie mistake; actually, I made a couple," she states firmly, not in the mood to cut herself any slack; or have anyone else do it. "I blew my cover, and I put a civilian's life in danger."

"You _are_ a rookie," he argues back, getting frustrated. She just shakes her head and looks away. He takes a deep breath, reigning himself in. Yelling isn't what she needs right now. "You _are_ a rookie," he repeats. "Therefore, you'll make rookie mistakes. It's the way it goes. I'm your training officer; it's my responsibility to teach you what you need to know, and to make sure your rookie mistakes don't cause too much danger or harm," he declares. He puts finger under her chin, moving her head and forcing her meet his eye. "If you wanna point a finger for this one, Andy, it's on me." He lets her of her chin, but her gaze remains steady.

Her eyes widen a little, and he's not sure why. His eyebrows crease a little, and she blushes a bit.

"What?" he asks, not enjoying being out of the loop. (It's a cop thing; and just a Sam thing.)

"You called me Andy," she informs him.

"Oh." This time he's the one to let his gaze stray. "Sorry."

"No, it's just . . ." She sighs, struggling to explain. "It wasn't _bad_," she tells him, "it was just . . . a first for you."

He meets her eye again, slightly amused when she blushes again. But she doesn't look away this time.

He notices, vaguely, that her eyes are a deep, dark brown.

She notices, not so vaguely, that his are light brown.

She startles as her phone vibrates in her pockets. She blushes, once again, looking away from his deep, brooding, sparkling, mysterious eyes, to find a text message.

_Luke: Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to come over._

Her eyes flicker briefly between the screen and Sam's eyes. Making a rash decision that she thinks she might regret later, she holds down the 'End' button on her phone, waiting for the telltale four-tone chime to indicate that it's off.

She slips it back into her pocket, her eyes flickering back to Sam. He raises an eyebrow. "Not important?" he asks, curious as to why she'd respond to a text by shutting off the phone.

She shrugs a little. "I'm just straightening out my priorities. And right now, Luke isn't one of them."

She looks away, letting her words sink in. She knows he was curious, but – for some reason (she'd think politeness, but she doesn't think that matters so much to Sam) – wasn't going to ask. She'd answered the unspoken question anyways. (And intensely aware of the large, warm body beside her, she starts to doubt that the decision she made will be regretted later.)

He doesn't respond, instead taking a sip from the beer he'd ordered when he sat down, grimacing slightly when he finds it a little warm.

"I guess we're going to have to agree to disagree on the 'rookie mistake' thing," she says, back to staring at the full tumbler in front of her. He just nods a little, knowing when to give in. He's said all he can say on the matter; and now, he has to let her come to terms with it on her own.

"I guess," he replies, because he doesn't think that she noticed his nod – what with the way she's having a staring contest with the Scotch. Finally, he sighs, and asks. "What's with the Scotch, anyway? Why'd you order it and not drink it?"

She sighs, mind flashing back to her dad at Fite Nite. He's been nothing but broken promises and endless drinking since her mom died. She catches Sam's eye once again, searching his gaze, wanting to trust him … but unsure how to explain.

"I came here tonight to forget," she starts, picking at her cuticles and looking down at the bar. He nods slightly, a little confused by her run-around answer but willing to wait it out. "I ordered Scotch because I figured, hey, my dad's been drowning his sorrows in it for ten years. It works for him, right?"

Sam's eyes soften, hers glistening with unshed tears as she refuses to lift her gaze. "And you didn't actually drink it, because . . ." he trails off, knowing full well why but wanting her to let it out.

"Because it _doesn't_ work for him," she snaps frustratedly, swiping furiously at the tears beginning to cascade down her cheeks. She continues talking as they continue to fall, despite her best efforts to stop them. "Because he ends up passed out underneath his coffee table, and I end up breaking in through his window to make sure he hasn't killed himself this time. Because he promises me – _promises me_ – to stay sober for one night … and I show up to find him drinking. Because he's _still_ miserable; the Scotch doesn't change that. And because I never want to end up like him." The last sentence is spoken much more softly than the rest, her voice breaking on the 'never'.

Sam sighs slightly as he opens his arms and pulls her into his embrace, thanking whatever spirits that are out there that she doesn't fight him on this. He doesn't offer any comforting words or 'its okay's, because he knows from experience that they don't mean a thing and don't do the intended job of making a person feel better.

He tries to ignore the way she feels so tiny in his arms – so vulnerable, so small; tries to ignore the memories of earlier in the day. The look in her eyes when she was pulled from the Op; the slight flinch back at the station after the warehouse incident, when Diaz caught her unawares from behind.

Tries, but doesn't quite succeed.

She pulls back after a couple minutes, sniffling and wiping her eyes. "Sorry," she says quietly, adding, "and thanks."

"Nothing to be sorry for," he tells her, shrugging and politely putting the scene behind them … except for a softly spoken: "And you're welcome."

She smiles – her first all night – and stands, grabbing her jacket from the stool on her other side and sliding her arms into it. "I'm gonna get outta here," she tells him, laying a bill down on the counter to pay for the Scotch she didn't drink. "Have to work early, and I'd like to get a little bit of sleep."

He nods, standing as well and fishing his keys and some bills from his pocket. "Come on, I'll drive you home," he offers, returning her smile as he places the money for his barely touched beer beside hers.

This time, she doesn't decline.

-0-0-

Please review and let me know if you like it or not!

Please don't flame; but constructive criticism is very welcome.


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